


Wolfhound

by Bearslayer



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crushes, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Rating May Change, Sass, Unlikely Pairing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearslayer/pseuds/Bearslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey Bullock had never considered himself a complicated man.</p><p>This fic is unfinished and will no longer be updated unless there is significant interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd warning!  
> This whole thing came from a prompt given to me by the only person capable of making me write... The prompt was 'unlikely couple'. Feel free to comment and encourage me to keep writing, I need it.
> 
> Takes place following S2E7. Here there be spoilers.

Harvey Bullock had never considered himself a complicated man. He liked food, whiskey, naps, and breasts, though not in that particular order. He enjoyed to be able to rough up a perp when they got out of line. He liked being handsome enough to pull women but not handsome enough for them to expect too much from him. The detective felt he was a remarkably simple man when you boiled it all down.

Of course, then Jim Gordon had signed on with the GCPD and turned the whole damned operation topsy turvy, stamping out corruption wherever he saw it, no matter the position or title of the person feeding on the innocent. Nowadays Harvey considered it a good day when he wasn't getting shot at. It wasn't all bad - for every bullet, there was a bright eyed rookie who looked at him like he stood for some ideal (when all he really stood for was keeping himself and Jim alive). For every stakeout there was more public awareness of the gritty underbelly of Gotham. He'd even ended up with a fiancee for a while, though she dropped him like a bad habit once he made it clear that the Force was where he belonged. 

Harvey didn't blame her. It was stressful for her not knowing when he'd stop being bulletproof. It hurt, as all breakups tend to, but Harvey was able to accept it and move on with relative ease, immersing himself in his work. Maybe he cracked a couple more heads than necessary to be effective, but Jim never ratted on him. Gordon might be a golden boy, but even sunshine on a clear day became a bit more dull when filtered through the smog that permeated Gotham. 

By the time Galavan came into office, Harvey's primary goal was to make it to retirement alive and at least somewhat intact. The chaos that ensued at the inauguration was no where nearly as surprising to the detective as it might have been for anyone else. At that point in his life, Harvey had hit something of an emotional disconnect from the lunacy that Gotham provided. He had become jaded, content to keep himself and Jim as safe as possible considering Jim's apparent death wish. He tried to remain uncomplex, to keep some normalcy to his life outside of work.

But even Bullock was unprepared for the event that took place upon his return to the station at four in the morning to get started on the stack of paperwork that was the only cure for his adrenaline fueled insomnia. Immediately upon entering the station, Bullock was given the immediate sense that something was wrong. There was no chill in the air, no creaking of the bones of the old building, no dead silence in a place that was active to at least a slight degree even in the wee hours. No, this sense came from many years of being forced to stay on his toes; something was wrong. 

His suspicion was confirmed when his somewhat ramshackle dress shoes squeaked and slipped on a telltale substance. As he caught himself and peered down, a hand slid to his side, pulling his gun from the holster in one smooth, practiced motion. Keeping his wits about him and his steps quiet, Harvey followed the morbid path splattered against the smooth stone of the station floor.

Across the station and up the short steps, around the banister and hidden tucked against Jim's desk, a Penguin bled. Harvey was at first stunned by the sight; the man was pale enough without the bullet hole oozing out his life energy... like this, his skin became translucent, and looked as fragile and thin as rice paper. There was a grey hue to his face, his breaths shallow. Harvey's first reaction was to point his Smith & Wesson 5906 directly at Penguin's forehead. The detective had a clean shot and if he didn't get a straight answer he would have used it. Despite his tiny frame and grave wound, he was a dangerous criminal.

“What the hell are you doing here, Penguin?” Bullock snapped, watching as pale eyes lifted to regard him.

“Bleeding to death, it seems.” Came the soft, chuckled answer. Harvey furrowed his brows. Even nearly dead, Oswald Cobblepot managed to be nothing short of sassy.

“If you plan to shoot me, please do it now, and do it somewhere that'll be quicker then this. I'm terribly cold.” Penguin sighed, eyelids fluttering shut.

That sort of talk only served to piss Harvey off, words creeping under his skin, blood starting to boil. He crawled into the station to die? He was all too familiar with suicide by cop; he had seen it in Gotham far more then he cared to remember, and had accidentally granted a death wish once when he was still a rookie. That was an incident that still surfaced in his consciousness when he'd had too much to drink. The memory began to bubble up, and with a quick shake of the head Harvey holstered his gun, bent down despite the protest of his aching back, and pulled the slight man into his arms.

"I'll nurse you back to health and then you're going to jail... or Arkham. You aren't dying this close to Jim's desk. You'd haunt him purposely because you give us both the heebie jeebies." Harvey grumbled in as surly a manner as he could. 

The tiny crime boss probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Bullock imagined that ten pounds of that was taken up by the finely tailored suit he was so fond of wearing. Carrying him was an easier feat than he thought it would be, and within very little time they were in his squad car, heading to the dissection lab to get help from the only person he believed would be up at this time of night and hanging out in a dissection lab. In transit, Oswald began to chuckle softly, staring at the roof of the car.

“You're weirding me out, Penguin.” Harvey muttered, half expecting the man to have been faking it and stab him, or something equally ridiculous. 

“Why are you doing this?” Oswald asked between faint, airy giggles. 

“Because you need to go to jail, not die.” Harvey practically grunted as he said it, still angry with the man for... well, everything. The tiny bird had been a thorn in his side since he first met him.

“Forgive me my assumptions, but that seems like sort of a cop-out answer.” Oswald's chuckles stopped, his small, deep-set eyes boring a hole into Harvey's temple.

“I don't have to explain myself to you.” Harvey snapped in return. Oswald closed his eyes.

“You could have left me there to bleed out... No one would have known. And if they did, they wouldn't care enough to penalize you for your inaction.” 

Harvey ignored him.

“You could even have moved me elsewhere and I wouldn't have been able to fight it... put a bullet between my eyes in some alley away from the station.”

The detective's fingers twitched on the steering wheel. How was he still talking? He'd been all but passed out a moment before this gentle tirade.

“You still can. If you get me back to health and in jail, I'll find a way out. You know I will. Let me die, Detective Bullock. I know you consider me a problem... that you wish Jim had killed me like he was supposed to.” 

Harvey kept his eyes on the road. Was this how Penguin always ended up getting his way? With constant, needling insistence of his point? He wouldn't falter from his mission, though. Not now. Maybe the tiny man would get out of jail if he lived. Maybe not. That was a problem for Future Harvey to deal with, and he sincerely hoped to be either retired or dead before it happened. For now, he just had to persist. Cobblepot didn't appear to be in any shape to run away, and Harvey planned to keep an eye on him anyway. He would ignore the suicidal whispers coming from his right, and when they arrived at the university Harvey was out of the car and at the passenger side in a flash, yanking the mobster up into his arms once more.

"I don't care about what happens tomorrow or the next day. The only thing that matters to me right now is that you get patched up, and I get some goddamned sleep. I'm not letting you die if I can prevent it." Harvey told him, tone harsh.

"You're almost handsome when you get so intense." The bird-like man said in response, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes. Unable and unwilling to understand what would possess Cobblepot to compliment him, especially at a time like this, Harvey took him into the dissection lab.


	2. Breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd warning part 2!  
> I didn't expect the response I got to this, thanks all of you! :D

Over the next few days, Harvey was evasive at work, perpetually distracted with the thought of Oswald healing just enough to try and escape. Detective Bullock checked on him often; each break, each lapse between shift, each time off the clock, he was there at the lab, watching over the pale creature. He had lost a good deal of blood and required more then one transfusion to replenish his supply. The bullet had been a through-and-through, but despite what you see on the movies, a hit to the shoulder is serious business. Oswald would likely never be the same, and the healing process would be long and arduous. 

Each time Harvey went to pay him a visit, he found Penguin in the same position; curled up in an ugly blue plush chair, crooked leg hanging limply over one arm, eyes fixated somewhere past the glass of the mirror, watching the world pass by outside. He never noticed Bullock was there until he gave some indication of it through the clearing of his throat or the nudge of a foot. His responses were unvaried; he either allowed a vague, accommodating smile, or simply looked at Harvey before returning his attention to the sidewalks outside of the lab. Eventually, it got to Bullock, and he pulled the chair with him in it away from the window. 

“That was rude.” Oswald remarked dryly, staring up at him.

“Every time I come here you're staring out that window and you don't talk at all.” Harvey reasoned, though for the life of him he couldn't figure out why that was suddenly a problem.

“You don't want to talk to me. You come here to make sure I haven't run away.” Penguin returned smoothly, never breaking eye contact.

“Obviously, but it gets boring to come here all the time and watch you look out that window.” Bullock shook his head. 

“Then don't come. I never asked you to check on me constantly, nor have I given any indication that I plan to run away.” Oswald's words exited lips that were curled in a sneer, his tone sharp.

“Why? Why haven't you run?” Harvey asked. Oswald was silent for a moment, sneer fading into a vague frown as he searched himself for an answer.

“Why would I?” He offered, though there was no heart or conviction to the words.

“Because you're a criminal. You know I'm planning to send you to jail, yet I'm keeping you in an unguarded room at a university. I haven't restricted your contact with anyone, you could easily call up one of your cronies and skip town.” Harvey pointed out. Once he pointed it out, he instantly became paranoid. Why had he been so lackadaisical about keeping this maniac contained?

“Why haven't you? If you were so convinced I'd leave, why wouldn't you take better precautions to hold me? Why would you have me treated here instead of a hospital under lock and key?” Oswald grilled him, that unneccesarily intense gaze still trained on the detective. 

Jesus Christ, why didn't he? Penguin had a history of survival. He had proven time and time again he could talk himself out of or into most situations, a fact Harvey was well aware of. Yet he had allowed his own lapse in judgment. He had left a dangerous criminal practically to his own devices; and not only that, he had given him the ability to do so unhindered by medical issues by bringing him to the lab. But when he looked at the man, he felt a twinge in his heart. It was uncomfortable, like he needed to take a Tums or three, like heartburn clawing up from deep down in his gut. 

Oswald was pitiful. A rainbow of bruises in various stages of healing sprinkled over his skin, which was still as pale as freshly fallen snow. The wound in his shoulder caused it to hang as limply as the deformed leg resting on the arm of the tattered chair. His eyes held some quality Harvey couldn't immediately pinpoint; something about them was far away, sad, but determined. He was brought out of his thoughts when a question was posed.

“You can't figure out why you're being so lax, can you?” Oswald asked, voice losing its harsher tone, going soft.

“I think I just feel bad for you.” Harvey offered, his voice also soft. “You're a dangerous criminal, but you're still human.”

“I'm not much of anything these days.” Oswald replied gently as he looked back towards the window. “If you don't mind, I'd like to go back to what I was doing.”

“No. All you're doing is pitying yourself.” Harvey snapped, unable to control his own mouth at this point, dissecting Oswald's psyche as he sat with a passive expression on his face. The clarification of his own slip-up came in the form of bitter admonishment. “It's bullcrap. It's not you. The Penguin I'm used to would have skipped out of here the second the blood was back in his body. You would have spent that time unconscious dreaming up some cockamamie scheme for revenge on Galavan and his nutcase sister. You'd have taken advantage of my idiocy. You're sitting here staring out the window. Every time I come in here, you're staring out that fucking window. Acting like you want to die. You don't have a death wish. You're a tenacious pain in my ass that won't die or go away when the world wants him to. It's practically your trademark at this point. And now some scumbag offed your mom. She died in your arms and you're gonna pussy out of reven--”

Harvey's words were cut off, surprised grunt ending his next word as a fist connected to his jaw. Oswald was quick, even as injured as he was. The punch came before Harvey even noticed the scrawny man moving. It did hurt, and caused his hat to fly off, but in this weakened state there was no way Penguin would have caused any real damage. The second the thought registered, a flash of metal caught the detective's eye, and he switched into officer mode a half-second after with a mental 'god damnit'.

It was almost a half second too late, the medical scalpel slicing through the air between them before stopping abruptly an inch from his neck, frail wrist caught by strong hand. Oswald raised his other hand to retaliate, but Harvey caught that one too, holding them both and shoving the small man back into the chair harder then intended. Oswald cried out in pain, teeth gritting and face contorting. Harvey did not relent, though, holding his wrists tight, leaning down into the chair, into him, staring into the pale eyes of the man who had caused him so much trouble over the past year and a half.

“There it is.” Harvey mumbled as the scalpel clattered to the floor. That fire, that rage; that was Penguin. He watched as his expression contorted from one of anger to one of abject sorrow.

Under his grasp, Oswald began to weep. Not normal crying, not frustration or physical pain; Harvey had seen those before. Those were fleeting, a release of emotion that helped steady a person. This was something new. There was a quality to Oswald's tears that caused his body to shake and slacken all at the same time. This was the cry of a man whose heart had been torn apart by forces out of his control. Harvey's grip loosened enough to allow him room to breathe, but he wasn't stupid; he kept hold of him.

“Let it out.” Harvey muttered to the man, unconsciously running his thumbs over his wrists in some vague attempt to comfort him. 

Oswald's tears did not end for some time, though the sharpness of his wails did drop off to a soft, animalistic whimper. His head dropped, and it was at that point Harvey knew it was safe to let go of his wrists, kneeling down in front of the chair. One hand shifted to the side to pick up the scalpel, just in case. 

“I couldn't even bury her. I had to run. I couldn't bury her. I just left her there.” Oswald cried softly, arms sliding around his own waist to hold himself.

“I'm sorry, Oswald.” He told him, genuinely, brows furrowed. It was the first time he used his proper name. “That ain't right. You don't do that to a mans mother. There's no honor in that.”

“He and that harpy have no honor... He would have a child murdered if it served his purposes.” Oswald sobbed. 

Despite his reservations about him, Harvey knew that Oswald Cobblepot adhered to a code of conduct. The people he killed were (as far as he knew) scum. They weren't innocent old women. He didn't kill or abduct children. He was a twisted sociopath, but he held up to the old mafioso standards that Harvey had a grudging respect for. Crime lords valued order, and despite clawing his way to the top like the lunatic that he was, Oswald held those same ideals. And in these times of Arkham escapees and little girl firebugs, maybe he was what Gotham needed. Penguin could serve as the lightning rod for all that crazy.

“He isn't gonna get away with it.” Harvey told him gently, looking up at him from his spot on the floor.

“How can you be so sure?” Oswald looked at him, puffy-eyed and blotchy-skinned from the tears.

“He isn't gonna get away with it.” Harvey said, firmer this time, unspoken words traveling between them. The bird-like man stared at him, absorbing the intent.

“Why?” Oswald asked. Harvey had never given him a reason to trust a word he said. He'd never done anything but tolerate him out of necessity and wish any number of deaths on him. But this time was different. A silent understanding washed over his features as Harvey spoke his next words.

“Maybe I have a thing for a good underdog story, even if I think the underdog is a sadistic monster. Maybe I just want what's best for Gotham right now.” 

After a moment of silence, the detective rose to his feet.

“I gotta get out of here for now... I have a mountain of paperwork to sort out still. Primarily because of you.” He chuckled softly, setting his hat back on his head.

“I do apologize, Detective Bullock. I hope the rest of your day goes smoothly.” Oswald replied softly. 

When Harvey returned the next day, Penguin was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S sorry for the feels. They were necessary.


	3. Disorientation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up way longer then I intended! But it's a good lead in to the next one, so I suppose it's alright. I'm not terribly happy with the way it turned out, but it happens.
> 
> Unbeta'd warning part 3.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been commenting on this, it's really, really appreciated. Keep the comments/critiques coming!

Harvey didn't blame Cobblepot for leaving after he had practically held the door open for him, but over the next two weeks Bullock grew increasingly concerned. The detective had been given no word about where the mobster was, or what, if anything, he had in the works. Not that he felt entitled to the information or anything; he just considered it a touch rude after saving Penguin's ass and verbally whipping him into shape. That, of course, was one of the reasons he was concerned.

Penguin was rarely quiet. He rarely hid. Harvey had to assume he was somewhere tucked away, licking his wounds and plotting his next play. The only other option that came to mind was that the little bird had been taken by someone. Galavan was in jail but his beloved (maybe too beloved) sister, Tabitha, was still skulking around Gotham somewhere, plotting the demise of Jim Gordon. She'd come very close to her goal only a few days prior, sending a team of assassins for him. Just as Harvey knew he would, Jim had gotten out of it with minimal damage. 

Maybe she had changed targets. Maybe she had somehow gotten wind that Oswald was alive and wanted to finish the job she'd started with him was now torturing him somewhere like the sick puppy she was. The detective had heard Mayor James' accounts and despite his years in the force, they still chilled him. It just wasn't right. If Penguin had been taken by her, he could only imagine what she'd put him through. And if she had him, it would effectively make Harvey putting his job and neck on the line by saving Oswalds life a pointless venture. And he didn't like putting effort into things unless they had some sort of payout.

That was why he was now walking in one of the shadier parts of town on the edge of the East End, going to the one place he knew he'd find Oswald if he was safe. The club that once belonged to his good friend Fish Mooney; a friend Cobblepot had taken out. While he did still harbor some bitterness at her death, Harvey had come to accept that the conniving Penguin had done what he did out of necessity. He didn't know all the ins and outs of the mob business, but he assumed Oswald had done what was necessary to further his own career. 

The normally neon purple umbrella in the front was dark, something that started a gnawing sense of concern in Harvey's belly. He didn't like how concerned he suddenly was. He didn't even like that he was there in the first place. He had no business checking up on criminals, which, he reminded himself, was what Oswald was. A criminal who he had said he was bringing to jail upon recovery. A criminal that had left the recovery process because of Harvey's not so subtle urging.

“Fish was a criminal too, you fucking hypocrite.” Harvey muttered bitterly at himself. “Don't pretend to be a saint now.”

Ignoring the puzzled expression of a person who conveniently happened to be passing by at that moment, Harvey tried the doorknob. Locked, as he expected. Frowning, he moved to the alley that had seen more bodies then the GCPD slab to try that door. He knew the lock to that one was easily jimmied, should it come to that. Whistling a jaunty tune to make himself look inconspicuous and then promptly stopping after he realized how obvious it made things, Harvey pulled his multi-tool from his wallet and tried the door. Locked. Taking a deep breath, Harvey unfolded the tool (a thoughtful gift from an old friend) and began to work the lock. If it didn't come open he would kick the damn thing in.

After a few moments, Harvey grinned wide as he heard a click. Sometimes he surprised himself. He hadn't picked a lock in years, but apparently he still had it. Refolding the tool and jamming it into his pocket, he slowly pushed the door open, caution reverting his expression to one of stoic, focused alert. He had no idea what he would find in the darkened club, if he found anything at all. Keeping one hand on his sidearm, Harvey crept into the side room that led to the alley door, looking around. 

The side room was empty, which made sense. It was just storage. It looked like it had been cleaned out, possibly by former employees of Penguin's angry at the chaos that had taken over the Cobblepot regime and left them jobless. Harvey didn't much care about that, though, as he made his way towards the door leading to the kitchen. The kitchen was empty, as well, and smelled of food that had been abandoned in a hurry weeks before. That was a bad sign.

Past the kitchen and into the main stretch of the club, his heart sank a little further. The club was dark, as far as he could tell, lit only a lamp on a table towards the stage. The lamp gave Harvey pause. Was someone there? Or had it just been left on mistakenly, like the food in the kitchen had been left out? An itching feeling at the back of his neck caused the gun to be removed from its holster, the detective's body tensing. There was no one at the table. A thin layer of dust was visible there, a fact which caused some of the tension to be dissolved.

The relief was short-lived, though, as the unmistakable chill of cold steel pressed against the back of his neck. Giving a soft 'damnit' under his breath, Harvey closed his eyes. How would he get himself out of this? Opening his eyes again, he looked around without moving his head, trying to catch a reflection in something to see who it was that had him at their mercy. The vanity of mobsters made that easy enough, and in the mirrored lamp he could just make out a large, familiar silhouette behind him.

“You know, it used to be that a locked door meant 'don't come in', but I guess everyone's forgetting their manners these days.” The voice was Hell's Kitchen personified. 

“Gabriel! Hey there...” Harvey gave a nervous chuckle, white-knuckled grip on his gun persisting. 

“Put it away, Detective Bullock.” Gabe warned, cocking the gun. The sound echoed in his brain as he did as told.

“It's away, it's away. Would you uh, mind getting that off my neck? I'm only here to check on something.” Harvey tried not to sound as scared as he was. 

If it were someone else holding him up he might not be as concerned, but Gabe was a mob veteran and Harvey desperately wanted to keep his brain inside his head where it was safe. Fortunately, he also knew that Gabe was a reasonable man. He'd come to Oswald's estate some time ago and openly threatened Penguin. Gabe could have killed him easily but didn't because Harvey didn't actually do anything.

“I'm not sure how I feel about that, Bullock. You weren't invited here. I'd prefer you focus whatever investigation you're on elsewhere.” The large man sighed at him, as if disappointed.

“It isn't an investigation. It's personal business.” Harvey reasoned, doing everything he could not to squirm. He could throw an elbow back, but he ran the risk of causing a knee jerk reaction in Gabriel and getting shot in the neck. For the moment, talking it out was the best option.

“Oh yeah? Care to enlighten me as to what would bring you into this humble establishment? An establishment which has been closed for the better part of three weeks?” Gabriel chuckled softly.

“Gabriel, you may lower your weapon. Detective Bullock is looking for me.” A familiar soft, nasally voice came from his right. As the gun was lowered, Harvey turned to look, and relief washed over him in a strange, comforting wave.

“Penguin! You're okay!” He managed, grinning a little too cheerily at the sight of him. 

“Why wouldn't I be? You're like a pup, Detective Bullock... Should I have left a note?” Oswald smirked a little from his spot on the middle landing of the stairs. The small man was standing straighter now, clad in a sharp black and red suit. Even his umbrella matched with it. The get-up seemed almost out of place in the club at that point, with its rotten food and dust. Harvey supposed that even with his empire in shambles it was important to Oswald to keep up appearances. Fake it 'til you make it.

“I would have appreciated a note, yeah.” Harvey replied in a manner more gruff then intended.

“I do apologize. I was in something of a rush, you see... Gabriel here had to smuggle me out a window. I didn't want to cause a ruckus at the university by walking through in that little paper gown so when I called he was more then willing to carry me out. It's so hard to find people as loyal as Gabe. I'm so grateful for such help.” Oswald remarked with a warm smile towards the large man. 

“Boss, you're makin' me blush.” Gabriel chuckled softly, waving a hand at him. The interaction struck Harvey as a bit bizarre. He knew Gabriel was a for hire type of guy and that, as far as he knew, his loyalty began and ended with money. 

“You still got the income to pay him?” Harvey inquired, and regretted it instantly when Penguin's expression morphed into one of distaste.

“Money isn't everything, Harvey. Gabriel is a friend.” He spat.

“Yeah... Money'll come after some time. I mean, I get where you're coming from, Detective, but it ain't about that right now. It's weird but I actually believe in his cause, y'know? He's a good boss... and Ms. K was a good woman.” Gabriel said the last part softly and with no small amount of sadness in his expression. Harvey had a sneaking suspicion that the older gentleman had a soft spot for the kooky old bird. 

“Alright, I get what you're saying.” Harvey agreed softly, looking back to Penguin. “So, you're alright.”

“Yes, Detective. I'm fine. Gabriel, would you give us some time? Go have a drink or two. You deserve it.” Oswald told his new right-hand man, who looked skeptical.

“You sure, Boss?” He asked, eyeing Harvey warily.

“Positive.” Oswald smiled, and looked back to Harvey. “Come upstairs, we'll talk.”

It was less a question and more a command, though gentle in tone enough to not be abrasive. The little lord was regaining some of his confidence, and it made Harvey wonder how these last two weeks had been spent. He was still pretty injured the last time they met and he couldn't imagine much had gotten done in the rebuilding of his kingdom. Kingdom. It was a strange way to describe any mafia conglomerate, especially in the state Oswald's affairs were in. On the hierarchy of illegal activity, Harvey amused himself by placing Oswald at the position of Baron. He chuckled softly at himself, before he looked up and saw that the small man looked a bit annoyed.

“Yeah, upstairs. Sorry.” Harvey cleared his throat, scaling the stairs to follow after him. Though standing straight and looking significantly more healthy then he had, Cobblepot still had a good bit of trouble climbing the stairs. If Harvey wasn't so positive he'd take it as an insult he'd offer him an arm. Instead, he just watched as the man leaned heavily on the umbrella and dragged his bum leg up behind him.

Harvey was led into a room without much decoration; a table and several chairs, an ornate rug that matched with others in the club, and a barred window that needed to be cleaned. On the table were stacks of papers, a decanter of whiskey, and several glasses. Oswald took a seat and Harvey followed suit, across from him.

“Care for a drink?” Oswald offered, opening the decanter and pouring himself a drink. An appreciative nod and the empty glass was filled and was pushed across the table. 

“Thanks. So I gotta know – what have you been up to?” Harvey probably should have led in with something else, but hindsight was twenty-twenty. Oswald rolled his eyes.

“Are you here to interrogate me, Detective Bullock?” Oswald returned, words quick, smooth, and full of thinly veiled irritation.

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to – uh... check on you.” It sounded strange to him still, though he'd come to terms with the fact that his mind was all out of whack lately.

“Did you now,” The small man gave the barest of smirks, sipping the whiskey in his glass, “And what have I done to garner such concern that you would go out of your way to check in on me?”

“Well, I could mention that you didn't leave a note again, but we went through that already.” Harvey gave a small smirk and took a quick sip of the whiskey. The burn of a good vintage of whiskey did wonders to settle his nerves. “You got my concern because you disappeared without a trace. I kinda wondered if someone had Penguin-napped you because I hadn't heard of any wacky antics on your end.”

“I'm still injured. And I'm also still a wanted man for all of that nasty business I was coerced into doing by Galavan. I'm laying low for my own benefit.” Oswald raised a brow. “But your concern is not lost on me. Thank you. To be honest, I hadn't expected you to care where I was off to, since I know the root of your initial concern back at the station was pity... Unless I'm mistaken.”

“No, it was mostly pity,” Harvey lied, knowing that it was only about half pity, “But also... I hate saying this, but you have potential. You might be able to help the city get back into some kind of order.”

“So you wish to use me to mend the city's wounds?” Oswald remarked, quickly. He was always so quick. “Well, fortunately for you, a king needs order to rule. I'm working on that.”

“What do you mean?” Harvey asked, cautiously. 

“I mean that I'm building my strength back up... calling on some old friends for help. Gabriel has been a boon to my operations. He... collected her for me, so that I could bury her. I didn't ask him to; he just did it. He was very fond of my mother. Loved her, even.” Oswald lowered his eyes. “He even found a priest so she could have a proper Catholic burial like she wanted... He cried, during it.”

“Poor guy. I'm glad you guys could do that for her. Honest.” Harvey nodded slowly. “Anything else in the works you wanna tell me about?”

“Harvey, I'm not stupid. I have many things in the works, the majority of which I won't tell you because you're still a cop, despite your inclination towards the shady side of life. Right now I have something in the basement I'm working on. It's taking a good deal of my time.” Though he was looking down the bridge of Oswald's nose from this angle, he could still see the crooked, sinister smirk forming on thin lips.

“That doesn't sound at all foreboding.” Harvey quipped, no small amount of sass to his voice. He could only imagine there was some nasty business happening in that basement. “You got someone down there?”

“Don't concern yourself with that. That's... personal business. Like you told Gabriel about your business with me.” Oswald chuckled a little, looking back up at him. “How is Jim, by the way? I heard about that nonsense with the assassins... I expect he fared well? He's a resilient man and has been a good friend...” 

“He isn't your friend, Penguin.” Harvey replied automatically. He was protective of his partner, as he should be. “But he's alright. Made it out fine... we found out who put the guild up to it, so that's something.”

“Tabitha?” Oswald spat her name. The venom behind his words was cutting in a way that, though it wasn't directed at him, Harvey still felt. 

“I'm not going to tell you that.” Harvey said. He knew that Penguin could gain the answer from his words.

“I assumed as much. But don't worry about her, Detective... That whore will learn her place.” The hate in his voice was almost tangible, removing any doubt in his mind that Oswald had big plans for the woman. 

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that one.” Harvey tried to keep his tone neutral. The truth of the matter was, he didn't mind so much. The idea of Tabitha Galavan getting some good old fashioned street justice for her crimes shouldn't be as appealing as it was. 

“Thank you for that. Thank you for everything you've done for me, Detective Bullock... You didn't need to. I'll remember that. I owe you; I remember favors done for me.” Oswald told him softly, polishing off the rest of his whiskey. 

“Hey, no, none of that. It wasn't a favor. I'm not gonna try to collect on that. Partly because I remember all the trouble you put Jim through.” He didn't say it in an accusatory tone, which he would have a month ago. He decided to shift topics. “So uh, I was wondering something. You seem to have a thing for Jim.” Harvey couldn't rightly say why he brought it up, or why it was posed as a statement rather then a question. 

“A thing?” Oswald chuckled. “He's a good man. He showed kindness to me when no one else would. He helped me when it would have gotten him killed. I suppose it does help that he's handsome, as well...”

“So wait, you have like, an actual crush on him?” Harvey's eyes widened.

“I did, at one point. Now it's more respect then anything romantic.” Oswald's head tilted slightly, and he regarded Harvey with curiosity. “Does that bother you?”

“So you're...” Harvey fumbled for his words.

“Gay? Yes, quite. You look very surprised by this, Detective Bullock.” Oswald smirked a little, clearly entertained by the reaction.

“Well I mean – I like to think I'm a pretty progressive guy... I just – I think I didn't expect that, you know? I just thought you liked to dress nice.” Harvey reasoned, leaning back in his seat. He shouldn't be so surprised, should be? He had asked about his feelings for Jim knowing that there was something more then childlike admiration there. Why was he so surprised to find out that his suspicions were correct? If anything he should be patting himself on the back for his accurate detective work.

“I think you're the only person that's ever been surprised by my orientation... I do like to dress nice, but that has little to do with liking men.” Oswald chuckled, refilling his glass. “Would you like another drink?”

“I – no. I'm alright.” Harvey shook his head, suddenly feeling somewhat unsettled. He hadn't realized he'd gotten so tense. “I should get going, actually... If I'm not back at the station soon it'll look fishy.”

“Very well.” Oswald gave a slight frown, taking a longer drink of his whiskey, running his tongue over his lips after. He was observant enough to have noticed the change in Harvey's demeanor, and the detective could tell he took it to heart. “I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable.”

“No, nothing like that. I just – it's good to know you're back in action. I guess.” Harvey shifted to stand up. “Good luck, alright?”

“Thank you. Gabriel will see you out... Please don't be afraid to stop by sometime, if you have reason for concern.” Oswald said it softly, watching as Harvey approached the door. 

“I will.” Harvey replied. He wasn't sure he meant it. All he could be sure about was that he needed to spend some time sorting out his head before he saw Oswald again.


End file.
